Kitchen Scissors

My coworker says my hair looks healthy now,

swinging past my shoulders in the elevator light.

I think of the photo in my nightstand drawer,

the one from the February the heater died.

I took the kitchen shears to the bathroom mirror

and hacked at my forehead until I was blind with it.

The bangs were crooked, a blunt, uneven ledge

that I couldn't stop looking at for weeks.

The dark clumps on the yellow linoleum

looked like a small, dead animal

I was too tired to bury.